


Return

by MathConcepts



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Alucard is a doctor, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Frottage, Injury, M/M, Medical Procedures, Multi, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Quickly Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Snark & Sass, Sypha captitalizing on a awkward situation, Trevor and Sypha leaving did things to Alucard's mental state, Trevor has a thing for Alucard's hair, Trevor has been horny for Alucard since Gresit, Trevor says fuck a lot, a lot of it (we're dealing with the trio here), a threesome that can be described as, blood-drinking, castlevania-typical swearing, denying one's feelings out of misplaced chilvalry, gratuitous humping, humping in the underbrush is now the smut tag for Castlevania, introspection at completly inappropriate times, like his mother before him, mild major character injury, multiple POVs, or - Freeform, or at least a nurse, post season two, remember that Alucard is nineteen!, sex in the Belmont library, sexy and non-sexy kind, unrequited love that gets resolved very quickly, what other tags should I add?...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22369957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathConcepts/pseuds/MathConcepts
Summary: In which Sypha takes a brief interlude, Alucard is attractive, (and stupid) and Trevor is forcibly reintroduced to emotions.Carmilla's forces send Trevor and an injured Sypha back to the castle for aid, where they are, in no particular order, forced to confront their feelings for each other, their pasts, their futures, and a present threat.
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	Return

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a backstory of sorts for other fics I have planned; they'll tie into this one, so this one is mainly to explain how the trio came back together and got to know each other better, biblically, y' know.

It's less than a month that they are away, before an out-of-nowhere vampire attack sends them running for the safety of Dracula's, now Alucard's castle. Trevor is no worse for wear, he's taken worse hits and lived, it's Sypha who is hurt, and badly. She hangs on all throughout the ride back to the castle, although Trevor knows it must be grueling, the deep gash in her side isn't getting any better, the rocky movement of the wagon is constantly causing it to tear open as soon as it barely starts to heal, and there's nothing much they can do for it besides wrap it up tighter every time and hope for the best.

  
  
He has to carry her out of the wagon and up the steps of the castle when they finally arrive, she's much too weak to make the climb herself, despite how she keeps ordering him to put her down.  
  
"I can walk on my own, Trevor," she insists for-well, he's lost count- but he only cradles her closer, he wouldn't want to drop her since she's injured enough already, he tells himself, although that's distinctly, awfully not the entire reason.  
  
She stops arguing around the time when he makes it to the top of the stairs - and what the fuck is it with all these stairs any way? It's indecent really, to force a person to walk a hundred damn miles uphill to get to the front door. He kicks at said front door with the toe of his boot, leaving a few pathetic scuff marks on the surface, and that's when Sypha begins to slip from his grasp. In his haste to catch her he digs his fingers into her clumsily bandaged side, and she lets out a ragged scream.  
  
"Fuckfuck-shit, sorry, sorry," he mumbles, hoisting her back up. She raises a trembling hand and pats his cheek weakly.   
  
"Clumsy." she grunts, monosyllabic, and he can't really argue with that, he is an clumsy, the clumsiest really. He'll agree with anything she says right now, as long as it means she's saying _something._ And then to his horror her hand drops and her head lolls back, and he panics.   
  
"Sypha, Sypha!" he shouts, shaking her as a much as he dares, and when that fails he sinks to his knees and carefully lays her down, his hands twitching uselessly. "Shit, Sypha, wake up, stay awake," he says, settling for stroking her cold face, then fumbling at the side of her neck for a pulse. The wound has reopened _again_ due to his ill-placed grab, blood is seeping through her bandages, reddening the already stained cloth at an alarming rate and that is _not good._ She's already lost so much, if she loses anymore she'll- no, and _no,_ he's not going to think about that, right now he has to find a way to stop the bleeding, fuck-   
  
"What the _fuck_ happened, Belmont?" a familiar voice demands, and Trevor's head snaps back. He must have missed the castle doors opening, because Alucard is right there, three or so feet from him, staring down at him and Sypha with an expression that's openly worried.  
  
" _Vampires._ They attacked us." Trevor grunts out, cupping a hand over the leaking wound on Sypha's side, trying to keep the blood in. Alucard's eyes narrow, and then he's down on his knees by Trevor and is scooping Sypha into his arms, then back on his feet and vanishing into the castle in a flash of red, leaving Trevor to sprint after him. Fucking vampire and his fucking superhuman speed. It's all Trevor can do to keep up with him, following the wispy trail of red light as he zips through the castle, and after the fifth stairwell and fourth floor he's is gasping for air. He's not currently in the best of shape, he has a few broken ribs and perhaps some sprains, and _maybe_ some mild lacerations that have been ignored in light of Sypha's much more serious injury, and now they are all coming back to haunt him.  
  
It seems like forever until Alucard finally darts into a room somewhere on the sixth floor, if Trevor has been counting correctly, which he probably hasn't, and at this point he's too arsed to even care. The room is nothing like Trevor has seen before, it's startlingly white, and wide, with tables and shelves full of instruments that look like they would be very much at home in a torture chamber. He only gets one look though, because then he's doubled over panting, resting his hands on his burning knees. He can see Alucard out of the corner of his eye, he's put Sypha on one of the tables and is now stripping off his gloves with his teeth.  
  
"How is she?" he calls over, and Alucard spares him a single glance before tossing his gloves down and plucking a pair of shears off the adjacent table. He sets about cutting Sypha's robes down the middle, and Trevor instinctively opens his mouth to protest before shutting it with a snap. Get the clothes out of the way to get to the wound, basic procedure even when one _isn't_ a doctor - or doctor's son - so he keeps his mouth shut and catches his breath. The _snick_ of the shears stop after a moment, and there is an ominous silence that is Alucard examining the wound.  
  
"She'll bleed out if this isn't closed immediately," Alucard says, and Trevor straightens out so fast that he swears he hears his spine snap.  
  
"Then what are you waiting for?" he says, because Alucard isn't making a move to do anything, shouldn't he be doing something, do something you-   
  
"Shut up, you _halfwit_ ," Alucard hisses, and Trevor realizes he's been saying that out loud. "She'll need a transfusion too, and I don't know her blood type," he goes on, much to Trevor's mystification, _transfusion_ , it sounds like something not good-

"I swear if you're thinking of using some sort of black magic on her-" Trevor begins, and Alucard shoots him a chilling look.   
  
" _Shut your mouth, Belmont._ " he says, and yanks pair of white gloves out of an open drawer and puts them on. Then he's fumbling in the drawer again, doesn't seem to find what he needs, and looks back at Trevor. "Give me the sutures." he demands, and Trevor just gapes at him, not comprehending his request. Alucard snarls wordlessly, and jabs a finger at a table behind his elbow, and Trevor turns and sees a box of string? String? He passes it to Alucard, who snatches it from him before collecting an odd assortment of other things, a basin, cloths, several bottles and a few tools that look positively evil.  
  
Trevor wants to ask what the fuck he's doing, just wrap up Sypha again before she _fucking dies_ , but Alucard is moving with an ease that is well rehearsed, and Trevor bites his tongue and wordlessly makes the decision to trust him, because he knows what he's doing, whatever the hell it is.   
  
There's a bank of crystalline bulbs over the table that Sypha is on, and at some invisible signal from Alucard they blink to life, although the light within them is warm yellow, not the odd blue of the bulbs under Gresit. Alucard dumps the contents of the bottles into the basin and sets it aside, and finally starts doing something to Sypha's wound, although whatever he's doing includes the scary looking tools, and Trevor skirts around to the table's other side to get a better look. Alucard is _sewing_ the wound, he's weaving a needle and string through the flesh, the needle clamped between the jaws of the tools as he works it in a strange pattern. Already the bleeding is beginning to lessen, Alucard is sealing up whatever was torn, and Trevor releases a breath he had no idea he was holding - for a while, if the tightness in his chest is anything to go by. Alucard pauses to glare at him, his brows furrowing sharply.  
  
"Get back. You'll breathe germs into the wound," he says, and Trevor is inclined to protest out of principal, because whatthefuck is a _germ_ , but he chomps down on his tongue again and steps back a couple paces, right about the same time that a cascade of golden hair falls over Alucard's hunched shoulder. Alucard makes an indignant noise and attempts to toss it back, and fails.   
  
"Pin my hair back," he says, looking at Trevor again, and the man chokes on nothing.   
  
" _What._ " Trevor wheezes, caught off guard, because why would he ever expect to hear a request like _that_ come out of Alucard's mouth, but Alucard just looks at him, and looks at him, like Trevor is some simpleton, and in all fairness, _yes_ he is, but it's still weird.  
  
"Pin my hair back," Alucard repeats, "Or it will touch the wound and cause infection."   
  
And Trevor can't really argue with that no matter how much he wants to, because it's already been established that Alucard has the high ground when it comes to patching up, so he does what he's told, and comes back around the table and to Alucard's shoulder and gathers Alucard's hair together as fast as he can manage-  
  
and for a moment stands there clutching it dumbly.  
  
It's soft, like fucking silk, and it _shines_ under the overhead lights. Trevor is struck with the sudden urge to run his fingers through it, to work out the minute tangles that have formed by him pulling it back so carelessly, and fuck - he banishes that train of thought by twisting the golden mass into a messy knot on the top of Alucard's head, securing it by hastily tucking the ends under. But there are still a few tendrils loose, and without thinking he reaches out and brushes them back, tucking them behind Alucard's pointed ear, and Alucard makes a noise, a fucking little noise in his throat, all low and soft like the croon of a kitten. Shit. Shit. _Shit._  
  
  
"Fix her up." Trevor growls, then turns away and fucks off in a direction that isn't Alucard. _Something_ just happened, and Trevor doesn't like it, at all.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Alucard allows himself a second of stillness before resuming, grasping his forceps just that much tighter as he sets the sutures in. It is nothing, just an simple touch, although the heat in his face begs to differ. The pads of Trevor's fingers had brushed against his skin as he had tucked his hair away, and up until that point, Alucard had never imagined that he was capable of a gesture that gentle, even on accident. The Belmont is all brashness and bluster, and his hands - for all the precision that he wields his weapons with them - can't have much claim to gentleness.  
  
So...  
  
...it's surprising, and not entirely in a negative way.  
  
  
When the wound is closed to his satisfaction, he ties off the sutures and blots the drying blood off Sypha's skin, then carefully binds her side with a strip of fresh, clean cotton bandaging and shakes out a linen sheet to cover her. She's still unconscious, but when he feels her wrist her pulse is steady, and he allows himself a sigh of relief. He'd smelt her blood, even deep within the castle as he had been, and to see her lying prone on his doorstep with Belmont crouching over her had made him fear the worst. He holds her hand after he takes his gloves off, because Trevor isn't close enough to see - and _fuck him if he does_ , a bitter little voice in the back of his head whispers - and listens to her heart thump steadily in her chest. It takes two, four, five, ten, thirty, a hundred beats of her heart for him to let go of her hand, and reach out to brush her hair off her face, only to snatch his hand back, because that isn't _allowed._  
  
Not anymore at least. She might have let him do it earlier, earlier before she'd gone off with Trevor and left him here with silence and memories and the ghostly laughter of a child and woman that neither existed anymore. She's made her choice, and it's Trevor, Trevor's filth and bluster and stupidity, and a heart that deep down is good...it's that that makes him leave her side and look around for the Trevor in question, who is off rubbing his grubby hands over a centerfuge, idiot, now he'll have to sterilize that- _twice_ -  
  
  
Trevor is injured, he can tell by the stiffness in his walk and smell the days-old stale blood on the man, so he grabs the basin and a roll of bandages, he knows Trevor will rebuff his aid but he at least has to make an effort, so when the man does die of an untreated infection, he'll be able to tell Sypha that he had _offered_ to help.   
  
  
He makes sure to take his hair down first though.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Trevor puts up the customary objections when Alucard approaches him, because while Alucard may have treated Sypha, he has no personal investment in doing the same for Trevor; no, he's more likely to take the excuse the finish the job.   
  
"If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead already, Belmont," Alucard informs him with a sour look. So Trevor batters down with a few more grumbles, although he refuses to take off his shirt for Alucard to inspect the damages. That is, until Alucard points out that Trevor has seem _him_ shirtless, and when did this become a competition? So he yanks the soiled garment off, and Alucard just scans over the bruises and scrapes and goes off to get some more bandages, leaving Trevor vaguely disappointed. Some part of him wanted Alucard to have a reaction to his bared chest - and what the fuck, why?   
  
He writes it off to stress and exhaustion and rivalry, oh, how he'll laugh at that in the future, and avoids looking at Alucard when he comes back to strap up his ribs. But the asshole is hellbent on making it awkward, because he asks how Sypha was injured.   
  
  
So Trevor has to tell him, tell him about the vampire presence in Bralia he and Sypha had gone to flush out, and how they had walked straight into the ambush that they very nearly were killed in.   
  
  
Alucard is oddly quiet through out the entire thing, he only speaks up at the end to ask about the vampires themselves. "What were their colors?" he asks as he's tucking the last strips of cloth around Trevor's ribs, and Trevor squints at him.  
  
"Colors?"  
  
"Of their armor, Belmont."  
  
"Ah-white and a little black. _Why?_ "  
  
"Each vampire faction has different livery, from their livery I can tell who their leader is." Alucuard says, slowly, like he's explaining to a child. Trevor bristles, really, how the fuck is he supposed to know anything about the intricacies of vampire fashion-  
  
"You're a hunter, Belmont-" _yes, shut up, Alucard._  
  
  
"So, who is their leader then?" because Trevor is curious now that Alucard has brought it up.  
  
  
"Her name is Carmilla," Alucard says, tearing off a strip of excess bandage with a dainty twist of his fingers. "She was a general of my father's and a ruler of a lesser province, Styria, but always very outspoken."   
  
"And now, what?" Trevor asks, experimentally flexing his arm and wincing at the pull on the torn muscles. It's sprained for sure, just his fucking luck. Alucard ducks his head, his _loose_ hair falling down over his shoulders - which is a a shame, Trevor liked the way it looked pinned up, _what? why the fuck did he just think that_ \- picking at some nonexistent flaw on his nails before answering.  
  
"My father's death has left quite the vacuum in the power structure, she's attempting to fill that void, I imagine." so, vampire politics then. Trevor sighs and rubs his bandaged ribs, he's too tired for this shit, now that he knows Sypha will be fine all he wants to do is crawl into the nearest corner and sleep off the last two weeks of adrenaline and worry.   
  
  
He doesn't get to sleep until Alucard has cleaned and bound the slashes on his shoulder, and then he's curtly dismissed to a railed cot in the back of the room. "What, you don't want to give me a real bed?" he says as he's stretching out on it, and Alucard frowns at him.  
  
"I assumed you would want to stay with Sypha." he says flatly. And yes, he does, but why does Alucard sound so damned unhappy about it? Looking back he'll realize just how stupid he was and groan, but for now he hunkers down on the clean sheets, soft white linen that feels _wrong_ against his skin - Alucard had refused to give him his shirt back - _it's fit for only the refuse pile, Belmont,_ and watches him move around the room with increasingly heavy eyes.   
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Surprisingly, it takes a while for Trevor to drift off to sleep, Alucard can feel his eyes on his back, tracking his movements, so he potters around and pretends to clean until the hunter finally surrenders to unconsciousness, and it's only then that he goes back to Sypha. She has a rare blood type, he discovers when he runs the necessary tests - and it worries him for a moment - the reserves of medical blood that remain are low; they have not been replenished in over a year, although they remain palatable, thanks to the castle's storage equipment.  
  
He finds enough to keep her out of danger, barely though, and as he's sitting there watching the blood drip into her veins, he finds himself holding her hand again. He looks at it, the slender fingers and the short curved nails, a hand that can wield such powerful magic and wreak destruction with a simple twitch of those fingers-  
  
-a hand that held his so gently.   
  
He gets up and leaves-because Trevor is starting to snore - certainly not for any other reason. He's the man who killed his _own father_ when said father posed a threat, he's not one to run from his problems. Which is a thing that is very untrue, as he runs from the lab.  
  
  
Giving one's affections is a game of chance, there is no telling how the dice may land, or what hand you draw. To win is to be noted and accepted, and that means he has lost. Or was never even playing to begin with, and he can't decide which is worse. The former means he was worth _something_ but not worth enough, and the latter means he was worth nothing at all.  
  
  
The answer comes to him after he's fled to his father's study - it's where he spends most of his time now, sitting listlessly in the room as the hours tick by - and the answer is neither. His worth ended with his father, after all, weren't they so eager to leave when their task had been completed? They're back now, but only out of need and not want; Sypha's injuries, the threat of Carmilla. He'll help them and watch them leave again, and it will be alright. _It will be.  
  
  
  
  
  
_

* * *

_  
  
_

  
  
  
He sits there until dawn, and then watches the shadows lengthen and pass on the wall to the chirping of the sparrows. Trevor wakes up and comes looking for him, he hears his heartbeat long before the man pokes his head around the doorway, but he still pretends to be annoyed.  
  
"Haven't you ever heard of knocking, Belmont?"  
  
"Fuck you," comes the frankly unimaginative response, and then in a more chastened tone, "Can you come check on Sypha? I don't know about all that-" Trevor gestures up his arm, miming the intravenous line Alucard had put in the night before.  
  
He stifles a laugh, and instead decides to go the more antagonistic route of asking, "What, afraid I'm performing some dark magic on her?"   
  
Trevor is immediately on the defensive, he can _feel_ his hackles raise from across the room. "No, you're the only one who knows how to take care of her." is what Trevor says though-through gritted teeth-but it's enough to make Alucard, who had been expecting the usual caustic remark to look at him in surprise.   
  
  
"...I'm coming."  
  
  
Sypha is fine, she's drifted from unconsciousness to sleep and she's stable, but he decides against waking her, she'll wake on her own soon enough. He changes the bandaging and pins the slit he made in her robes up, and wonders if she has another set to replace it. If not he'll loan her something until it's mended, but he suspects that the only thing he has that will fit her on short notice is his mother's clothes.  
  
He cringes away from that idea immediately, any notion of seeing his mother's things, let alone going through them is unthinkable at the present. And to see Sypha actually wearing them...  
  
Trevor, who is hovering at his elbow, clears his throat expectantly, providing a convenient outlet from darker thoughts. "She's doing well," he says firmly, to forestall needless questions. "Stop brooding about like a mother hen."  
  
  
Trevor sputters. " _I am not-_ " he cuts him off by throwing a wad of Sypha's balled up bandaging in his face.   
  
"Go put a shirt on, Belmont."  
  
"You took my shirt!"  
  
Which, he _did,_ but that's still no reason for Trevor to go gallivanting about half naked. He tells him as much, and Trevor pulls a fantastic bitchface on him.   
  
"Then give me back my shirt!" he says, sounding like a pouting child despite growling the words, and folds his arms over his bare chest to hide it, which catches Alcuard's eye. He hadn't given much notice the night before, but now he _looks._  
  
  
Trevor's chest is littered with scars, some old, some new, some Alucard knows exactly when and how he gained. It's somewhat of a novelty to see all those scars, as strange as that seems; he's not accustomed to wounds that linger, his body and those of his kind heals every inflicted imperfection seamlessly. His mother, although human, had no physical flaws, except for the faint lines of age that deepened with the years. It had taken his father's mad rage to leave a mark that remained on his body- during the first weeks he'd spent sequestered in Gresit he'd sit looking at the wound under the glow of the artificial lights, waiting for it to close and disappear like every other before it had - and when it finally, finally had closed, he'd been left with a sprawling brand of pink that was so jarring against the paleness of his skin.   
  
  
He had tried to claw it off in a panic, and had come away with a handful of bloodied flesh, but the scar still remained. It was a _human_ scar, like all of Trevor's...  
  
  
"Put a _shirt on_ , Belmont," he repeats, his voice significantly rougher. Trevor, of course, opens his mouth to make some undoubtedly snarky comeback, but he brushes right past him, picks up his shirt from the hamper where he had stowed it the night before and tosses it back at the man, leaving before he has a chance to see if Trevor puts it on or not.   
  
Trevor pulls it on, dirty or not it hardly matters, he's given up on those considerations at the age of fifteen. What's more pressing at the moment is why the fuck Alucard is acting like he is, both withdrawn and skittish in spades. It's not normal, well, whatever normal is for him any way. Sypha would know what was wrong with him, if Sypha was awake.   
  
He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, half annoyed, half something like worried, which doesn't make any sense. Alucard is weird, meant to be weird, that is, he's the half-vampire son of _fucking._ _Dracula_.   
  
Although sometimes it may be easy to forget that, when he stands freely in the sun, or laughs, or takes off his gloves to reveal fingers that don't end in bloody talons. Whatever.  
  
Trevor has bigger fish to fry at the moment, and perhaps not metaphorically either. He's hungry, and he doubts that there is anything in this castle that a human would want to put in their mouth-so that means he has to go hunting. The store of supplies he and Sypha had gathered had been used up in the journey back to the castle; time was of the essence with Sypha injured, so they never stopped to replenish them. He'll forage around in the forest too, and maybe find some berries or nuts for Sypha when she wakes up, a paltry get-well present, if you will.   
  
  
Alucard catches him heading out of the castle and makes him jumps a good two feet with a "Where are you going, Belmont?" as he materializes out of a shadowy corner. Oh, _fuck off_ with that.  
  
"Out." he snaps. Alucard tilts his head questioningly, his hair pooling on his shoulder at the movement; catching the sunlight that's streaming in through the ruined doors. _Fuckin. hell._ "I need to go hunt," he elaborates. The sun is turning Alucard's hair gold, bright, shining gold. The closest comparison he has is his mother's jewelry, it used to be gold too, glittering here and there with gems. Where her jewelry is now he can't say, probably melted when _they_ set fire to her bureau, the large oak one he had hidden under...   
  
Fuck.  
  
He shoulders past Alucard, who says, "You're welcome to use what's in the kitchens," which makes him stop short and look back at him.   
  
  
"Why would a vampire have _kitchens,_ " is the first thing out of his stupid mouth, he's not great with any type of brain-to-mouth filter, or else he would have said something else, anything else. Alucard blanches, but regains his composure at whip-speed.   
  
"Not everyone who lived in this castle drank blood, Belmont." he says icily. Trevor has no idea if he's talking about his mother or himself, and he doesn't ask. He's not as tactless as he appears to be, he understands that there are things one does _not_ do. He's not going to apologize though, so he does the next best thing and shuts his mouth and allows Alucard to lead him to the kitchens.  
  
They're grand and dark, like everything else in the castle, huge ovens gape in the walls like dark caves, and there's racks and shelves and drawers of shiny, _shiny_ pots and pans and cooking implements that Trevor doesn't know the name for, let alone would know how to use if given the opportunity.  
  
"There's nothing here that's fresh," Alucard says as he turns off into what has to be a pantry but looks more like a vault, "But there is still plenty of dried goods and preserves."  
  
Trevor looks around. There is, there's metal canisters labeled to show they contain either flour or cornmeal - why yes, he can read - sacks of beans or corn and various types of potatoes and onions are piled in the corners, and on the shelves, baskets and nets and glass jars, of herbs and spices or preserved fruits and vegetables. Apples too, he bends down and swipes one from a basket at his feet, inspecting it approvingly.  
  
"I'll leave you to it, then."  
  
"What makes you think I know how to cook?" Trevor calls after him.  
  
Alucard just laughs, but he doesn't leave. "I doubt you would want _me_ cooking for you." And well, that sounds like a challenge if Trevor has ever heard one.  
  
"Well, why not? Don't mix blood into my food and we'll be good." It's a rather unpleasant smile that he gets in return for his jest, not openly hostile, but with just enough fang to set some subconscious part of Trevor on edge.  
  
"As if I would waste good blood on you, Belmont."  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


  
  
The stew is good, despite their antagonism. Alucard makes it in one of those huge shiny pots, and regulates Trevor to the the tasks of bringing in water and firewood. The few tastes Trevor has managed to sneak in - or has been allowed to sneak in - makes his mouth water for more. There's no meat in it, it's barley and potatoes and dried corn, in a stock of concentrated chicken broth. But it'll be the first hot meal Trevor has had in weeks, the first meal he will have eaten out of proper dishware in _years._  
  
  
He feels rather guilty about the horses now that he's going to have his dinner, they've been outside hitched the the wagon the whole time. The stew is still bubbling away, so he goes out with a sack of corn to feed them, then lets them loose to go drink at the nearby stream. He settles down to watch them - no good in letting them get lost or they'll have no transportation - and eats his apple. The horses and stream are at his front, the sun to his left, and the castle and the ruins of what used to be the Belmont home at his back, he's aware of them in his periphery.  
  
It's curiosity that makes him get up and trek over to them, he had after all commissioned Alucard to make something of them, and who can blame him for wanting to see what he's done?  
  
Which is nothing, as it turns out. There's a wood lattice covering the worst of the damage, and a dubious ladder fashioned out of rope. But the actual library itself, when he descends the ladder cautiously and lights a torch after fumbling around in the dark for a bit, is the same as he'd left it, from the wrecked staircase to the mirror propped against the shelves.   
  
He pokes around a bit and somehow winds up in front of the display case of tidily rowed vampire skulls, he pauses to look at them, and realizes he isn't alone several seconds later when some wood cracks behind him.  
  
Alucard moves soundlessly, so Trevor knows that when the splintered wood snaps it was stepped on for his benefit. He shouldn't really get irritated over something as petty as that, but he does. He spins around, and Alucard, who is leaning against a bookshelf like the asshole he is, grins at him. It's still not a nice grin, but at least his fangs are concealed. Small mercies. "What are you doing here?" he says, and Trevor looks around and shrugs, racking the torch on an iron holder on the other end of the bookshelf.  
  
"This is my home."  
  
"I seem to recall you gave it to _me_ ," so, they're doing this now, are they? Trevor can play along.  
  
"And I recall I told you to do something with it," he gestures around them, and Alucard's eyes flit over his shoulder to the case of skulls behind him.  
  
"Forgive me if I don't exactly feel at ease in this place, Belmont." he says, and Trevor can see the gleam of the glass paneling reflecting in his eyes. _Right._ Deliberately Trevor unclenches his jaw, because he isn't going to be baited like that. Alucard possess the ability to get under his skin as easily as breathing, but he had promised Sypha not to let him get to him; she had been insistent too, before she lost the strength to argue with him for extended periods of time. For whatever reason, she hadn't wanted them fighting.   
  
  
Fine. He can do it for her.  
  
  
But Alucard is looking at him now, his gold eyes intent, obviously waiting for his response. What he's going to do is tell him to fuck off, climb up out of this damned place and go eat before the stew gets cold. What he's _not_ going to do is stay where he is, transfixed by that peculiar gaze, and say, "How many _humans_ have died on the doorstep of your father's castle? Do you think that _you're_ the only one here who doesn't feel at ease?"  
  
So that's exactly what he does.  
  
He strikes a chord with that, he can physically feel Alucard's outrage ripple out from him, and for all of two seconds is smug about breaking his calm facade, the fact that that he didn't mean what he said notwithstanding; he threw out what he thought would cut, not what he personally feels.  
  
Because he feels at ease in the castle, for some utterly convoluted reason, the three or so days he had spent there in the aftermath of the battle had been pleasant. Stock the wagon during the day, walk with Sypha in the evening, and at night return to the castle with it's looming presence and twisted architecture that should have made him so very uncomfortable, but never did. All its horror had left with its master, it's a shell, a glorious one, but a shell nonetheless.  
  
Maybe it's the ruins of what was once his home that are grounding him, maybe it's just him plus too many knocks to the head, but Dracula's castle does not bother him. That the castle may have witnessed the deaths of a few disreputable nothings bother him even less - he's killed enough inside it's halls as it is.   
  
  
But all that doesn't matter _now_ , because once again he's failed to check his mouth and has said the wrong thing.  
  
  
Alucard is openly snarling now, as he should, Trevor has just inadvertently thrown salt into the wounds left in the wake of Dracula's demise-how many did Alucard have to watch his father murder before he decided that enough was enough, how many died before Alucard's futile attempt to stop him?  
  
How many _have_ died on the doorstep of the castle, like Trevor said, and what a dumbfuck thing that was to say.  
  
" _You-_ " Alucard hisses, and Trevor can see him visibly fighting for control, his hands curling into fists with a squeak of leather, and he immediately goes for the morningstar curled on his belt. It's a kneejerk reaction, but it's also another _bad move,_ because Alucard growls, and even in the flickering light of the single torch, Trevor can see the red bleeding into his eyes.   
  
"Aluca-" he tries, because how the fuck did it manage to go downhill this fast? But Alucard growls again, cutting him off, the _asshole_ \- the growl is almost as deep and as throaty as a real wolf - and while it raises every hair on the back of Trevor's neck, he can't truly say it scared him. Yes, he's _scared_ , in the way that anyone would be, but there's something else mixing with it, tempering it into a feeling that warps his insides.  
  
  
Alucard's eyes are like rubies now, glowing and hazy through the mist of smoke wafting from the torch as it runs low, and Trevor unfurls the morningstar.  
  
  
He has Alucard backed against the bookshelf, but it's Trevor that's the cornered one, he's trapped in a glorified basement with a pissed off vampire; if it comes to a fight, a _real fight,_ he won't be walking away from it alive - sure, he'd held his own against Alucard in Gresit, but that had ended in stalemate for both of them, and Sypha isn't here to tip the scales.  
  
And, fuck, Gresit. Whatever is churning in his stomach - excitement and fear and _want_ \- it's been simmering there since Gresit, and now looking at Alucard with his fangs bared and red dancing in his eyes makes him feel a phantom weight on his lap, phantom fingers in his hair.  
  
  
  
 _Fuck.  
_  
  
  
The morningstar drops to the ground, its metallic _clink clink_ against the stone floor echoing too loud in Trevor's ears. Alucard's eyes flit to it, uncomprehending, and Trevor takes advantage of the distraction to launch himself at Alucard, cutting himself on his bared teeth at he clumsily plants his mouth over his. Alucard stiffens and Trevor, who has his hands on his shoulders for leverage, feels as if he's grabbing at a block of marble. His wrists are suddenly locked in an iron grip, and he can feel their bones grinding under the pressure.  
  
Fuck. This is without a doubt, one of the worst impulses he has acted on, barring even punching fucking Dracula in the fucking face. He pulls back, sucking the blood from his lip where he had jabbed it on a fang, and meets Alucard's eyes.  
  
If he's going to kill him, he's going to make him do it looking at him.  
  
He's expecting Alucard to snap his wrists and go for his throat, but he does neither; his gold eyes with no longer any hint of red stare back at Trevor, flickering with something he can't place. Then they drop to his lips, where blood is beginning to well again, and the grip on his wrists loosen, which gives him the opening needed to work his hands free and back Alucard against the bookshelf before he can stop himself - which then begs the question - why did Alucard just let him do that? Trevor is under no illusion that he is manhandling Alucard of his own volition, the vampire, _half_ vampire, but whatever, is inhumanly strong, and Trevor is sure he'd be nothing more than a pile of broken bones if Alucard wasn't actively allowing this to go on.  
  
So maybe he hasn't fucked up after all.  
  
He takes care to suck the blood off his broken skin before he kisses Alucard again, more carefully this time, taking care that their lips actually touch and gauging his own reaction, waiting for his conscience or instinct or _something_ to tell him to back off. Nothing does.   
  
It's not a fleeting, crazy, intrusive impulse, it's what he _wants_ , to kiss him, to get his hands into the gold hair and his body against his-the Belmont in him rears up, horrified, but the part that's Trevor, just Trevor, not the scion of a hundred decades of hunters - tells it to sit right the fuck back down. He started this, he'll see it through to the end.  
  
  
He registers the hand in his hair and on instinct goes up to pry the hand fisted on the top of his head away, but then he's being spun around and slammed back against the bookcase with six feet or so of vampire pressed up against him, and _okay._ He lets his hand drop and hooks it around the back of Alucard's neck, rakes his fingernails across the marble skin and tries to pull him in for another kiss, only to end up with both hands pinned against the shelf behind him. Alucard looms over him, his fangs on display and a predatory gleam in his eyes, almost an exact replica of their position in Gresit. It heats Trevor's blood, and he bares his teeth back at him, a challenge.  
  
  
"Kiss me, bastard." Alucard's hold on him falters minutely, and something dark, unsure? passes across his eyes. Then his grip is back full force, gloved hands flexing around Trevor's forearms as his mouth crashes against his, sucking in his bottom lip and swiping his tongue just barely so into Trevor's mouth. Trevor chases his tongue and hooks a leg around Alucard's in a futile attempt to pull him closer, and maybe he shouldn't have done _that_ , because it opens his stance enough for Alucard to shove a knee between his legs.  
  
Not that he's complaining. He'll have friction now if he wants it, which he will be in the next forty seconds or so, given where all of his blood seems to be heading at the moment. Then _shit_ , Alucard bites, only with his front teeth - _but still_ \- right down on the open, tender spot on his lip, and Trevor momentarily forgets about the burgeoning problem down south.  
  
  
"Asshole," he throws out when Alucard pulls back, and he only gets a twitch of Alucard's mouth in response before he's leaning back in, mapping his tongue over Trevor's bottom lip for the pitiful amount of blood he just drew. That should not be as arousing as it is - what the fuck is wrong with him? A normal person would be shitting themselves in fear by now; but Trevor isn't normal. Hasn't been, not since they burned his family in front of him-  
  
  
and now his thoughts are going down a path he really doesn't want them to, not now. He avoids that path on the days that it gets to be too much by drowning himself booze, but there isn't any of that here, fucking Leon, filling this place with every other bloody thing but yet couldn't even manage to add a cask of wine. So he clamps his thighs closed around Alucard's and rocks down on the expanse of taut muscle, building up the pressure between his legs. He's no stranger to sex, at least the fumbling, half-drunken kind of sex, and if those experiences have taught him one thing it's how to get off quickly, and that's what he intends to do.  
  
  
But Alucard has other ideas, it seems, because he brings his knee up and slides it against Trevor's crotch, and at the same time tucks his head into the crook of his neck and lets his fangs graze against the taut skin stretched over the junction of neck and shoulder. Trevor's breath hitches, a sound that shoots straight down Alucard's stomach, amplifying the heat already swirling there. His nose is filling with the scent of Trevor's blood, it's musky and rich and underscored with the sour smell of alcohol. _Typical._  
  
It flames a burning in his throat to life, makes him remember that he is hungry, hungry in the way only one of his kind can be, he's been drinking from the dwindling stores of animal blood he's managed to salvage or not at all, more often than not _it's not at all._ The medical stores he had been saving for last, for when the animal blood finally ran dry, and now he has cause to regret that, Trevor's blood is calling to him, promising an end to his thirst. By all rights he should shove the man away and leave, but he doesn't for two reasons.  
  
First, because he has more self control than that, he'll be damned if it's a Belmont who sends him running in fear of breaking it, and secondly -  
  
  
he's lonely.  
  
  
The past month - not even a month - has been an eternity, left to the tender mercies of the ghosts of his life he's been existing as a ghost himself, confining himself to the castle and wandering aimlessly around it, he eats sparsely, sleeps not at all, and when he can bear it he shifts through the destruction, digging for something he never seems to find. He has not once set foot in the Belmont library since Trevor and Sypha left, it was too empty, too silent without them.   
  
Now there's a heartbeat in the room that isn't his, there's flesh and blood and bones under his hands, and breath in his ear, reminding him that he's not alone, not the last person on earth, condemned to a living hell in the bowels of his childhood home.  
  
And beyond that, he wants him. He can attribute that to the siren call of warm blood, but no, it's a different hunger. For a full-flegded vampire the lines between _lust_ and _bloodlust_ often blur, but by virtue of his human half he can differentiate between the two.  
  
Or he may just be going mad. Whatever insanity compelled Trevor to make such urgent advances on him is contagious, or, or-  
  
-it's something that's already been there.  
  
Since Gresit, at least. He'd never been given a fight like the one the Belmont gave him in the keep-save for the one that ended in his father's death, but that..doesn't count-he's sparred with others before, even fought for his life, but those were easy battles, training sessions with his father's servants who would never have dared to to hurt him, even accidentally, or setting to rights a band of rouge vampires.   
  
They were nothing like the Belmont with his whip and brashness and directive, backed with a hundreds of years worth of hunter lineage that had gotten him a stake inches from the heart.   
  
  
He's broken out of his reverie by Trevor attempting an attack on his mouth, so he lunges forward and meets him halfway, because kissing the man is better than putting his lips anywhere near his neck- he might do something he'll regret then-  
  
  
And Trevor is, surprisingly, a good kisser, he finds when he angles his head to fit their mouths together _properly_ for the first time.  
  
Irrationally that irritates him, he'd expected him to be clumsy and brute, and he so does hate when his judgements are proven wrong; but Trevor has been defying his expectations from the start.   
  
He releases Trevor's wrists to get a hand in his hair again, takes a handful of the brown locks and yanks hard to bring his head closer, and Trevor _moans_ against and into his mouth.  
  
Oh. He sees.  
  
Of course, releasing Trevor's wrists frees his hands, and Alucard nearly rips out a chunk of the man's scalp when they settle on his hips, heavy and warm, so warm he can feel it through the leather of his trousers. From there they travel up, working his shirt out from under his waistband as they go, and then the calloused pads of Trevor's fingers are on his skin.  
  
  
  
  
Alucard's skin is cool, not the icy death-cold a vampire's skin usually is, no, it's simply cool in the way marble is. And also smooth, he's trailing his fingers up and over the expanse of taut muscle and doesn't hit one blemish until his fingers find the ridged edge of the scar on Alucard's chest - he shouldn't be surprised, he's seen the man shirtless, he knows he has no scars except for that one. Force of habit or something, he supposes, to assume that everyone else has some - and that's when Alucard finally shoves him away. Hard.  
  
So touching the scar is a no-no.  
  
He's shoved against the bookshelf, losing his balance and falling onto his ass, and knocks some books onto the floor, but he grabs onto Alucard's waist and drags him down with him, and they end up heaped together with Alucard straddling his thighs, his fangs bared. Well, on the upside, it's starting to feel a lot more like Gresit.   
  
" _Don't-_ " Alucard begins, or rather hisses, but he cuts him off.  
  
"Won't touch the scar, got it." Trevor mumbles in what he hopes is an assuring voice, and hooks his fingers under the strappy belts curving over Alucard's hips, trying to fumble the buckles open with his thumbs. Alucard, which reads as; _asshole_ , lets him struggle for a bit before slapping his hands away and undoing them with an absolutely irritating ease.   
  
Trevor wants to say something about what that implies, but then Alucard is rolling his hips in a way that brings all his weight down on Trevor's crotch, and well, Trevor loses the ability to form words for a minute or so. When he comes to, metaphorically speaking, Alucard is grinning at him, three parts fang and one part pure evil. Trevor fucking. hates. him.  
  
Not really.  
  
Especially not really when Alucard pulls his shirt up and off and tosses it to the side in one smooth motion, then leans in to kiss Trevor again. They seem to be doing more kissing than anything else, but he's not complaining. He reaches up and works a hand into Alucard's hair-it's still as soft as he remembers from yesterday-and gets the other down the front of his pants, or tries to, because those pants are ridiculously fucking tight; but Alucard bats his hand away, confusing Trevor until he start rolling his hips again.  
  
Oh. It takes an embarrassingly long time for Trevor to get with the program and start moving with him, but it's sinfully good when he finally does. They rock together like that, and Alucard nips and licks into his mouth as if he's tasting him - which he probably is - and that's when it finally hits Trevor that he's fucking, well _almost_ fucking, a vampire in the Belmont ancestral library.  
  
He can see the case of skulls out of the corner of his eye, and while that should kill his libido, he's actually never been harder in his life. It's the thrill a child gets from doing something they know is forbidden, like knicking pastries from the kitchens and consuming them in some remote corner, or reading a massively inappropriate book by candlelight, all of which Trevor has actually done.   
  
But this is hardly a child's frivolous insubordination, no, Trevor is sure he's doing what borders on sacrilege of some type - but he can't bring himself to care at the moment. He'll attend to the fallout later, and if _that_ isn't the story of his life.   
  
Alucard moves like a goddamned lynx, sinuous in a way no one has a right to be. Trevor drags his hand through his hair and down his back- feels the muscles there shift and dip under his touch - then into the slope of his waist and over the curve after that, and clamps it around the back of his thigh, bucking his hips up with as much force as he can muster. Alucard snarls into his ear, and Trevor does it again, grinning when he swears in a voice that somehow manages to be breathy _and_ four or five octaves deeper.  
  
He's regretting it two seconds later when Alucard grabs his shoulders-he can feel his nails lengthen and dig into his skin through the cloth of his shirt, _ow fuck_ -and grinds down on him with nearly painful intensity. The whiteout that follows knocks all the thoughts clean out of his brain, but he still hazily surmises that given the way Alucard is rutting on him like he has something to prove, he's undertaking even this with antagonism, which is fucking hilarious.  
  
He laughs his way through his own climax, and nearly misses Alucard's, who tenses, his breath coming rapid but cool against Trevor's neck, and then goes limp against him, his head lolling onto Trevor's shoulder. For a moment there's nothing but the sound of both their breathing petering out into a normal pace, and then-  
  
"What exactly was so amusing?" Alucard demands, drawing back to look Trevor in the eye. His hands are still on Trevor's shoulders though, which feels weird, _intimate_ could be used, if Trevor doesn't recoil from that word quicker than he does from the heat of a fire.   
  
"Can't tell if you were fighting me or fucking me near the end." he says, because once again, brain-to-mouth filter, what's that? Alucard narrows his eyes at him, and Trevor is suddenly hyper aware of the literal claws inches away from his neck and face and chest and the plethora of very vital places that go along with them. Haha, shit.  
  
  
But Alucard doesn't do anything except lean over to pluck his shirt of the ground - giving Trevor an excellent view of a flexing chest to hip ratio - and stands up. He follows suit, a bit awkwardly given the mess in his trousers, and watches Alucard pull his shirt on. It occurs to him that he should say something, and fast, but nothing comes to mind.   
  
  
The reckless abandon from before has gone out with his orgasm, an unsurety is taking its place. Which is a shit feeling in any situation, but it's somehow worse now, for some stupid reason he can't place. So he shoulders past Alucard and goes to pick up the morningstar, because that he can handle. Alucard's eyes are boring into the back of his head, he can feel his gaze like a physical weight on his skull. He has two options now, man the fuck up and turn the fuck around, or leave.  
  
And like an absolute pathetic coward, he chooses the second. He's halfway to the ladder with the torch in hand when Alucard hails him, "Belmont, wait-" but he ignores him, drops the torch and books it up the ladder. Alucard could catch him, if he really wanted too, and that makes it even more infuriating when the vampire makes no move to go after him.   
  
Fuck him, really.  
  
When Trevor hit the surface he breaks out in a flat sprint towards the castle, away from his latest fuckup.


End file.
